


Bullets

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Doctor John Watson, Drabble, Drama, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, John Is So Done, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Sherlock Gets Shot, Short One Shot, sorry if it sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which an attempt is made on Holmes's life, and Watson is his diligent caretaker.





	Bullets

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пули](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506565) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> So basically this is a plotless drabble I wrote because I had terrible writer's block I needed rid of.   
>  Sorry if it kinda sucks lol.

“I'm afraid you've perceived the scene entirely wrong, Inspector,” Holmes said slyly, inspecting the hands of the victim closely.   
“Is that so, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade said skeptically. “I think it is quite clear. The man has killed himself.”   
“ _Wrong!_ ”   
“How? The door is locked!” Lestrade exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.   
“Oh, it will all come to light very soon. I'll tell you at Baker Street tomorrow. Noon? Come, Watson.”   
John followed at his heels, shrugging at Lestrade, who shook his head.   
“Where to next?” Watson asked as they climbed into a cab.   
“Back home,” Holmes yawned, stretching his hands behind his head.   
“You've already solved it?!”   
“Yes, I'll explain at home.”   
They rode in comfortable silence for some time. John watched as Sherlock dipped in and out of sleep, evidently exhausted from the aftermath of their last case.  
When they arrived back at 221b, he shook his shoulder gently, rousing him fully. Holmes blinked, nodding, and they stepped out.   
That's when the shot was fired.   
  
It came out of nowhere, and there was no time to perceive who the shooter was before Holmes was falling to the pavement, all the tiredness in his eyes replaced with shock as blood pooled from his stomach.   
He managed to catch himself, springing up. Knowing the adrenaline had yet to wear off, he grabbed Watson by the sleeve and yanked him into the alley, lest the assassin shoot again.   
“Sherlock!” Watson cried as Holmes desperately clutched the wound. He crumpled and John caught him, lowering him slowly toward the ground.   
“It must've been the brother, Robert,” Holmes hissed. “He figured out I knew he shot him, he knows—“   
“Hush,” Watson said frantically, putting pressure on the wound to stifle the blood flow. Holmes groaned in pain. “Get a doctor!” he cried at the cabby, who was watching the scene in shock.   
“You are a doctor,” Holmes pointed out weakly.   
“Shh. Keep breathing.”   
The cabby ran off and Watson desperately cradled his friend's head, trying not to panic. Holmes's breathing was shallow and forced, and he was losing blood rapidly.   
“John, if I—“   
“Don't,” John whispered hoarsely. “Save your energy.”   
“No, I must tell you—“ He weakly gripped his friend's hand, looking up into his eyes. He steadied himself with difficulty. “I am sorry—that I left you—those years.” John shook his head, trying not to cry—not to cry—  
“Don't, Sherlock, please—“   
“John, my dear John—“   
He lost consciousness.   
  
He was very nearly gone when the ambulance arrived on the scene.   
They were able to save him by what was nearly a miracle—and he spent several days in bed, dipping in and out of consciousness.   
He was mostly in a feverish delirium, and he murmured of chemistry and old cases and violin strings and John Watson.   
Watson stayed by his bedside, tending diligently to him.   
It was nearly three days later that he became coherent for the first time.   
It was noon, and Watson was dripping brandy down his throat. He coughed, and his eyes fluttered open heavily.   
“John,” he muttered.   
“Right here,” John said softly, relieved to hear him talking.   
Holmes was quiet for a few more minutes, breathing quietly.   
“Did they— arrest him?” he said finally.   
“Yes,” Watson said. “They caught him two blocks away with the revolver in his hands. He confessed to staging his brother's suicide.”   
Holmes nodded.   
“And you?”   
“Me?”   
“Are you hurt?”   
Watson chuckled softly.   
“No, Holmes, I'm not hurt.”   
“How long have I...?”   
“Three days.”   
“Dammit.”   
Watson started, unused to Holmes ever exclaiming an oath. But the detective chuckled.   
“I'm sorry, Watson. I've been quite useless.”   
“You were shot.”   
“All the same.”   
More silence as Watson dabbed a cool cloth on the detective's head.   
“John?”   
“Hmm?”   
“What I was going to say, in the alley—“   
“Yes?”   
“I love you.”  
John kissed his head, squeezing his hand gently.   
“I love you, too. Get some rest.”   
He nodded, and in a few moments, was asleep once again.

 


End file.
